‘May I come in?’
She stared at him, belatedly realising she hadn’t said anything to so much as acknowledge his presence. She was simply standing, staring, her heart in overdrive, her panic centres in full swing. She shook her head urgently, jerking it so hard it could well have snapped from her spine. ‘Um, no. I—What are you doing here, Dimitrios?’
‘That’s something better discussed in private.’
She frowned. Beyond him was a Sydney cul-de-sac. No one was around, that she could see. ‘Seems pretty private out there to me.’ She reached for her key, hanging on a hook beside the door, then drew the door open further so she could step out.
She knew as she did so that it wasn’t just
the risk of him discovering the truth about Max. She was ashamed. Her apartment was far from luxurious—heck, it was far from comfortable. She’d done her best but there was always something more urgent to buy or pay for. Trendy cushions and throw rugs were way down her list of priorities.
Stepping outside, though, brought her toe-to-toe with a man she’d told herself she’d never see again. And even though she’d been coming to realise that was unrealistic—that their son deserved better—she hadn’t been prepared for this! To see him tonight—here, at her place—was too much, too soon. She wasn’t ready; she wasn’t mentally prepared.
We have a problem.
‘What are you doing here, Dimitrios?’
She registered the response her saying his name had on him. His eyes flickered with something she didn’t comprehend. Annie looked away, crossing her arms over her chest. It had been a warm day, but the night had cooled off, and she was wearing only a thin T-shirt and yoga pants.
She’d almost forgotten how handsome he was. His face, so symmetrical, had the effect of having been sculpted from granite. Every line and shift was intentional—nothing had been left to chance. Cheekbones, a patrician nose, a determined jaw and a cleft in his chin that she remembered teasing with her tongue.
Her skin flushed with warmth. His eyes were a steely grey, blue in some lights, and his brows were flat and long, making him look every bit as intelligent as she knew him to be. She’d never known him without facial hair—stubble that grew over his chin and above his lip, but which she doubted was intentional, more the result of a man who was too busy to trouble himself with shaving regularly.
Her stomach lurched as other characteristics threw themselves into her mind. The memory of his hard chest, so chiselled and firm, each muscle drawing her attention and making her worship at the altar of his hyper-masculine beauty. His tan, a deep brown, the colour of burned caramel. His arms, strong and slim, the way they’d clamped around her and held her body close to his as she’d fallen asleep. And she’d fallen asleep believing the promises his body had made hers—that the experience they’d shared was the beginning of something meaningful and special. In the midst of her grief, the sadness that had filled her soul with the sudden death of her older brother, Annie had felt as though she’d come home. She’d believed everything would actually be okay.
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ He answered her question with one of his own. A frisson of danger moved down Annie’s spine. The question wasn’t the kind of thing you asked. This was no fishing expedition; he knew something. Or, he thought he knew something. But what? Hopefully, she racked her brain for anything else it could be—hopefully. But there was nothing. The only secret she’d ever kept from him—from anyone—was the existence of Max.
Anxiety turned to adrenaline; she shivered.
‘Tell you what?’ she heard herself ask, her voice a little higher in pitch than normal.
‘It’s too late for that, Annabelle.’ He expelled a breath that could almost have passed for a sigh except there was too much anger behind it; bitterness, too. ‘A journalist knows. We have a son together.’
She sucked in a sharp breath, pressing her back against the door in an effort to stay upright. It barely helped. She felt as though the four walls were closing in on her—as though the atmosphere of the planet was being sucked out into space, as though an enormous weight was bearing down hard on her belly.
Why had she thought she could get away with this? Of course he should have known about Max. What had she been thinking?
All the reasons that had seemed so valid a little over six years ago blew away from her like dust in the wind. She stared at him, but the accusation and anger in his face made it impossible to hold his gaze for long. She angled her face away, concentrating on breathing. Her lungs burned. Shame made her cheeks flame.
Her eyes hurt.
A second later, she was aware of his curse, and then nothing. She wasn’t sure how long the nothingness lasted, only that his hands were around her waist, lifting her easily as his fingers dug into her pocket to remove her keys. She was groggy—too shocked to protest. He pushed open the door to her apartment and it wasn’t within her capability to feel even a hint of embarrassment in that moment—at least, not at her décor.
He carried her to the sofa and laid her down, his footsteps retreating for a moment. She heard squeaking as he opened cupboards and then slamming as they closed heavily. Once, twice, thrice, a fourth time, and then the running of water. He returned with a glass and held it out to her. ‘Drink this.’
God, what she must look like to him! She scrambled into a sitting position, holding a shaking hand out for the glass. After she’d had half of it, she sat with it cradled in her lap, fighting the sting of tears.
‘So it’s true?’
She lifted her face to his, wishing he would sit down or that she could stand up, but her knees were as stable as jelly. And, given the tiny size of her sofa, she didn’t actually want him to sit down, because that would bring him way too close to her, and she was already spiralling from the remembered sensation of his strong arms carrying her so easily when she’d passed out.
His voice was throaty and deep, raw and guttural. ‘Annabelle, damn it. Tell me. Is it true?’
Except he didn’t really doubt the truth, did he? She saw that in his expression, the tautness of his face, the anger in the depths of his eyes. Her stomach squeezed. She couldn’t lie to him—not any more. And she didn’t want to. Nor did she want to lie to Max.
But, oh, Max. How would she explain this to him? She knotted her fingers in her lap, an old nervous habit she’d never been able to shed, her eyes huge in a face that had grown pale. Her side-sweeping fringe had fallen to cover one of her eyes in a river of shimmering gold and she instinctively lifted a hand to swipe at it, tucking the longer strands behind her ear.
She hadn’t really thought she could keep Dimitrios from learning the truth. But it was only having him here, with this accusation, that she realised she’d waited for this day—that she’d known it was coming and had almost longed for it. What else could explain the relief she felt?